Mostly Harmless
by Ferdinand J Smith
Summary: Stephanie chases a skip. The skip is nowhere to be found. Ranger shows up, as does Jow. Hilarity ensues.


**"Mostly Harmless"**

**Chapter One**

It was two A.M., and I was standing barefoot in my kitchen, staring down at a large slab of chocolate cake, and I was having a moral dilemma. I didn't need the cake, but I wanted the cake. A few months ago, this wouldn't have been an issue. I would've just eaten the cake and gone back to bed. No second thoughts. No guilt. But I'd been eating _a lot_ of cake lately, and now I had a roll of fat hanging over the top of my waistband.

"Maybe if you just eat part of the cake," I told myself. Yeah, right. Like that would ever happen. One bite and I'd end up eating the whole thing. Moderation has never been my strong suit.

I blew out a sigh and closed the refrigerator door, and padded back to my bedroom. I burrowed underneath the covers and tossed around for a little while, trying to get the cake off my mind. I _really_ wanted that cake, but I knew better. There were a lot of things I wanted which weren't necessarily good for me. I was trying to take a break from them, too. One of those things was Carlos Manoso, street name Ranger, a second-generation Cuban-American New Jersey native who had a tendency to make my blood boil, but in a good way. Joe Morelli was another of those things. Not that Morelli was bad for me. He's a cop, and a pretty nice guy. He had a wild youth, but he's grown up, and now he's looking to settle down. Problem was, I wasn't so sure _I _was looking to settle down. Part of that had to do with the fact that I was in love with both of these men, and to complicate matters even more, I was pretty sure they were in love with me, too. Scary.

I blew out a sigh and went back to the kitchen. I felt sick. I needed something to settle my stomach. I pulled the cake out of the fridge and started forking it in. Fifteen minutes later, the plate was empty, I was bloated, and that sick feeling was starting to come back. I looked over at my hamster, Rex. He had his nose pressed up against the glass of his aquarium, looking thoroughly disgusted.

"I know what you're thinking," I said to him. "And you're right. I'm pathetic."

Rex gave a small hamster-nod, and went back to running on his wheel.

I swiped some of the excess icing off the plate and licked it off my finger, and went back to bed.

It was a little after nine when I made it into the bonds office. Connie Rosolli, the office manager, was sitting behind her desk.

"New skip," Connie said, passing me the file. "It's a high bond, but I don't think you'll have any problems with it. And if you do, call Ranger, because I'm not giving this to Joyce."

Joyce Barnhardt is a bounty hunter, a pervert, and a huge pain in my ass. No one at the bonds office likes her, with the exception of my bail bondsman cousin Vinnie, who shares Joyce's fondness for farm animals and sadomasochism.

I opened the file and skimmed through the basics. Manuel Ricardo Diaz, nineteen. Wanted for homicide. His photo was clipped to the inside of the folder. Hard to tell from his mug shot if he was a menace to society, or just a good kid who didn't stand a chance.

I closed the file and took a seat on the edge of Connie's desk.

"I'll take it," I said to Connie. "Vinnie in yet?"

Connie shook her head. "I'm not expecting him in today," she said. "Lucille had an ultrasound yesterday. Looks like they're having twins."

Lucille is Vinnie's wife, and Vinnie is my cousin on my father's side. I blackmailed him into giving me this bounty hunter gig a few years ago, and one brief hiatus aside, have never felt the need to give it up in search of more stable income. It isn't the best job, but someone has to do it. And to tell the truth, I get an odd sense of worth from doing a community service. Go figure.

It was the middle of July, but Connie was shivering. She rubbed her arms a couple times. "My skin crawls every time I think about it," she said. "He came in a few days ago carrying a duck mobile, and I had to cross myself."

If I had to describe Vinnie in one word, that word would be _sleaze_. He's about my height, slim, with slicked-back hair and pointy-toed shoes, and a moral compass that's stuck on _rodent_. I wasn't sure which was more disturbing: The fact that we shared some of the same genes, or the fact that he had managed to pass those genes on.

I said goodbye to Connie and piled into my Jeep Liberty. I started the motor and cranked the air conditioning up full-blast, and went back over Diaz's file. Not much there. He still lived with his parents on Locust Street, but worked part-time at a video games and comic book store. One prior arrest for grand theft auto back when he was a minor, but he'd gotten off easy with probation and community service.

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Morelli.

"It's me," I said when he answered. "Are you busy?"

"Not yet," Morelli said. "But I'm going to be. Some guy just fell out of a third story window over on Stark Street. I'm on my way there now."

Morelli works homicide, and I could tell from his tone that the chances of this guy actually _falling_ out of a third story window were slim to none. Most likely, he was either pushed or thrown. I happened to know a guy named Tank who had once tossed a drug dealer out a third-story window, but I didn't think he was involved this time. Tank was one of Ranger's men, and Ranger liked to keep things clean. If Tank had been involved, the guy wouldn't have ended up in a puddle on the sidewalk. He would've just disappeared.

Besides, I was pretty sure Tank was following me.

I gave my rearview mirror a quick scan, but didn't see anything. Not that I expected to. Tank might be a big guy, but he's good at blending in when he wants to.

I turned my attention back to Morelli.

"I need a favor," I said to him. "What can you tell me about Manuel Diaz?"

"Sounds familiar," Morelli said. "Is he the kid who smoked Snappy Mitchell in a strip club last month?"

"Yep. That's the one."

"Wasn't my case," Morelli said, "so I don't know the details. I'll see what I can find out and get back to you."

"Appreciate it," I said.

Morelli disconnected and I folded my phone and dropped it in my bag. It was nice and cool inside my Jeep, but I could see the steam rising off the pavement. Soon, the heat would be scorching, and I'd have a river of sweat running down my neck and breastbone. I blew out a sigh and pulled into traffic.

Smosh Comics and Games was located in a small strip mall in the center of the city. I parked in a slot near the entrance and went inside. A tall, lanky guy in a green T-shirt was behind the counter, sorting through a deck of _Magic the Gathering_ cards. I walked up to him, and he cocked his head to the side and looked at me.

"Can I help you?"

I handed him my business card and introduced myself, and inquired about Diaz.

"You won't find him here," the guy said. "I caught him lifting from the register a couple weeks ago and fired him."

"Are you the manager?"

"You could say that," he said. "Ian Smosh. I own the place."

"Do you know where he is?"

"No," Smosh said, "but I could throw out a couple guesses."

"Well?"

"Look," Smosh said, "I don't know if you noticed, but this place doesn't get a lot of customers. It's not like those chain stores in the mall. You're not going to get a free game with your X-Box or a discount card. It's that way for a reason. It's to keep away the bad element."

"Shoplifters?"

"Kids," Smosh said. "We get a lot of regulars. That's what foots the bill in this place. What, you think I'm standing behind this counter because there's nowhere else I wanna be?" Smosh scoffed. "It's not like I can just post a sign in the window and offer a job to any pimply-faced, Tony Hawk wannabe who skates by. I hired Ric because he knew every cheat code, every power level, every release date. And because he bought more than he earned. It was a win-win situation. You see what I'm saying?"

"You want a bribe."

"I like to look at it more as a business relationship," Smosh said. "You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. That sort of thing."

I rolled my eyes and looked around. "Okay," I said, "I'll take one of those things."

Smosh turned to look at the spot where I was pointing. "A memory card?" he asked. "Nice choice."

Smosh added it to the purchase and looked at me expectantly.

"What?" I asked him.

Smosh gave a palms-up gesture. "My average sale is fifty-four dollars," he said. "Right now you're at twenty-three."

"Fine," I said. Then I picked up a handful of suckers from the box in front of the register and dumped them onto the counter, on top of the memory card. Smosh added the suckers to the sale and gave me the new total. Still ten dollars short. I ran my hands through my hair and let out a frustrated groan. "This is ridiculous," I said to Smosh. I pointed to the row of _Magic: The Gathering_ cards in a case behind the counter. "I'll take one of those, and that's it."

Smosh looked at the cards. "Which one?"

"I don't care," I said to him. "The blue one."

Smosh opened the glass case, took out the card and sheathed it in a little plastic cover, and rang up the sale. "Cash or credit?"

I passed him my Visa card, signed the little slip, and waited while Smosh bagged everything up and passed it to me.

"Wait a second," I said, looking at the receipt. "You rang this up wrong. This receipt's for two-hundred dollars."

Smosh shrugged.

"I'm not paying you two-hundred dollars for this," I said. "In fact, I'm not paying you for anything. I want my money back."

"Sorry," Smosh said. "Exchanges only. No refunds."

"Oh, for chrissake," I said to him. "Just tell me where Diaz is."

"Dunno," Smosh said. "But your best bet would be to check the Queynos Hills."

My eye twitched. "The Queynos Hills," I repeated.

"Mm-hmm."

I lunged at Smosh, sailing over the counter in a fit of rage. I wasn't sure what I was going to do to him when I got him, but I had a feeling it was going to hurt . . . _a lot_. Smosh held me off with a plastic lightsaber and reached underneath the counter for the phone.

"You crazy bitch!" Smosh yelled. "Get out of my store! Get out of my store before I call the cops!"

I righted myself and brushed my hair out of my face. "Shows what you know," I said to him. "I'm dating a cop! The police won't touch me!"

Okay, so neither of those were one-hundred percent the truth. But what Smosh didn't know wouldn't hurt him, right?

Smosh pointed to the door. "Out!"

I straightened my purse strap, grabbed my bag, and stomped out of the store. I climbed into my Jeep, slammed the door shut, and sat there for a while, trying to regain my composure. I was hot, and I was cranky.

I needed a doughnut.

I reached into the bag and pulled out one of the suckers, and tore open the wrapper. It was gummy, coated in sugar, and shaped like a superhero. Batman on a stick.

_Fucking Batman_, I thought to myself. And then I bit his head off.


End file.
